The Tree of Life
by MHWK
Summary: A client with no memory has left clues to her last thoughts written on her arms. Mycroft is doing all he can to keep her comfortable, but John can see his fear. The case is given to Sherlock in hopes of finding out this woman's history, but will the truth be more dangerous than they first assumed? Rated M for later chapters.


**Chapter One**

John awoke with a start. He sat up in bed and held his head in his hands. He hadn't dreamt of the war since moving to 221B Baker Street, but now he sat in a cold sweat, his leg hurting. The memories of Afghanistan rang clearly in his head. He could hear the gunfire, could feel the heat as he sat in his cool room.

It was three in the morning when his phone lit up with a text from Mycroft Holmes. Reaching over, he slapped his hand on the phone and lifted it to read, _Urgent._

Everything was urgent with Mycroft, he thought as he rose from his bed and dressed for an early morning. There would be a car waiting out front. Mycroft had a habit of kidnapping him. At least he knew it was coming this time.

As he pulled on his jacket as he stepped quickly down the stairs and out the front door. The car was already waiting. He got in without a fuss and sat quietly on the ride. He was too tired to talk to the woman that sat beside him.

His head was still full of battle scenes and chaos. He was playing back the day he had been shot, the bullets whizzing overhead. It was only hours before that that a convoy had come into his base and dropped off a small squadron with extra supplies. They were a queer bunch, a squad of five with two female infantrymen. They hadn't said much to anyone, but they followed orders extremely well. Every one of them a crackshot as good as he was, if not better.

When he had been shot, they had helped him, packed his wound and kept him alive until he could be operated on. He would always remember one of the women. She was the only one to have ever said a word to him or anyone else during their stay.

"Hey," she had said, her gloved hand on his cheek as he lay in the dirt, bleeding from his shoulder. "Stay with me Doc." She was distinctly American by her voice alone. He couldn't understand why she would be stationed with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It was such a random placement for that small squad.

He had left Afghanistan before they had, but he still wondered about them from time to time.

Arriving at Mycroft's new secret meeting place, happy that it wasn't a strange factory in the middle of nowhere once again, John sought out his flatmate's brother. When he found him, Mycroft appeared pale.

"What's so urgent?" John asked.

Composing himself, Mycroft cleared his throat and held out a folder to the doctor.

Confused, John took the folder and glanced through it. "What's this?" he asked upon seeing pictures of what looked like writing on human arms, blood on hands and boots.

"I need you to convince Sherlock to look into this one," Mycroft replied.

John glanced to him with his brows drawn. "What is it?"

"Unfortunately, I am not privileged to repeat anything personal about this individual," Mycroft said, a shake in his throat.

If Mycroft was shaken, John was beginning to feel ill at ease. "What can you tell me?" John asked.

"She has lost her memory, and we need to know where she was last and what happened. We need to know what she knows," Mycroft said stiffly.

"He won't be happy that he won't get all of the details," John sighed.

"He'll live," was the response.

"He'll want to speak to her."

"And we will arrange it."

John didn't like the sound of that.

Returning to 221B Baker Street was another quiet ride as he poured over the sparse information in his hands. It only told him what was on her, the evidence that had been tagged.

As he walked up to his flat, he wondered if Sherlock would find it at all interesting.

All things were better left until proper waking hours, and he left the file atop his laptop and went to his room. He was tired, and as he lay down the dreams left him alone for the rest of the night.

Rising after the sun, he showered and went downstairs in his robe only to find Sherlock sitting in a chair, pouring over the documents he had brought home.

"Curiosity…" John muttered.

Sherlock glanced to him and John shook his head.

"From Mycroft," John said as he motioned toward the folder. "He said it was urgent. He seemed a bit spooked."

"Mycroft doesn't… spook," Sherlock replied.

"Well, perhaps you have a better word for being as white as a sheet," John said as he settled into another seat.

"This is all?" Sherlock asked of the material in his hands.

"He said he couldn't give out personal information on this person."

"I want to know my client," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm not sure who your client is in this case," John sighed. "The woman without her memories, or whoever it is that has Mycroft stirred up."

Sherlock smirked. John was beginning to wonder if he would only take the case to see how frightened his brother was.

"He said he could arrange a meeting with her if you need to see her," John mentioned.

Documents in hand, Sherlock rose from his seat and went for his coat. He didn't even have to say anything. John only wished he had had the better sense to come down the stairs already dressed.

As the cab that had been sent for Sherlock and John arrived at a country estate, Detective Inspector Lestrade was waiting for them out front.

"I didn't expect to see you here," John said as they stepped out of the car.

"Whose team do you think found this mystery woman?" Lestrade asked. "We're on protection detail until further notice. Seems Mycroft doesn't want anyone else knowing about her."

"Fascinating," Sherlock muttered. "Where is she?"

"Last I saw her, she was actively ignoring Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade mused.

"I like her already," Sherlock smirked as he and John entered house.

Upon entering, a brief glance about and Sherlock easily deduced that his brother had spared no expense in caring for this person's every need. She was indeed important to him to offer lodging in such a posh estate with Lestrade's unit at her beck and call. The officers seemed as much a captive as the mystery woman was.

"Should have told us you were coming," Sergeant Donovan muttered from the doorway to the parlor. "She's asleep."

"Not asleep," came a mutter from the top of the stairs that led to the second floor bedrooms. It was a local accent. She could have lived right down the road from any one of them. She was a woman of dark brown hair and skin tanned as if she was often in the sun.

John frowned. In the pictures in the folder Mycroft had given him, she was a blonde.

"I got tired of you pestering me if I remembered anything," said the unnamed woman to Sergeant Donovan. "This must be your consulting detective," she said and glanced down to Sherlock as she leaned upon the banister on the second floor.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself.

"I'm sorry I can't afford you the same courtesy. Between yesterday evening and this morning, I seem to have forgotten myself entirely," she replied with a listless wave of her hand.

Descending the stairs in clothes that were baggy around her slim frame, she said, "And please, if you are as good as they claim you are, inform them I am not lying when I say I really do not know who I am. I'm truly tired of poor attempts at being tricked into revealing something." She cast a disapproving look at Sergeant Donovan, who scoffed in response.

Coming to stand before Sherlock, she glanced briefly to John and he introduced himself. "Dr. John Watson," he said and extended his hand.

"Have we met?" she asked as she took his hand in hers. Then she shook her head. "Not that I'd remember," she sighed and then escorted them to the parlor where she sat heavily upon a couch and crossed her legs.

"Start with what you remember," John said as he took a seat beside Sherlock.

"I woke up last night with writing on my arms, blood all over, a pistol on my hip and housekeeping calling the cops. That's the last I remember," she said.

Sherlock smirked. "You're not lying."

"Thank you," she replied.

"Then Detective Inspector Lestrade showed up and his team poked and prodded me for about an hour while they took pictures and bagged everything I had on me and about thirty minutes after that I was on my way here," she said.

John couldn't keep the smile off his face. Her respect for Lestrade and her contempt for his team was more than evident.

"If you want to look at what I had on me, you'll have to talk to them," she shrugged.

"Your hair was blonde in the photographs," John said.

"How observant of you, Dr. Watson," she said with sweet words. Shaking her head, as if she didn't know where the sarcasm had come from, she crossed her arms over her stomach and said, "It was a weave."

"Do you think you're a spy?" John asked.

"I think everyone else thinks I'm a spy," she shrugged.

Sherlock stood and rounded on Lestrade. "I will need her effects," he said.

Lestrade left to retrieve the items as John asked, "Is there anything on your person that might give us anything to go on? A birthmark a-"

"I discovered last night in the shower that I have tattoos," she said casually. "If that helps."

"I imagine at this point anything helps," John replied.

Rising to her feet, she turned her back to him and pulled her formless grey t-shirt to her shoulders and brought the fabric forward to cover her small breasts. A detailed tree of many roots and branches sprawled from her hip to her right shoulder. A little brown sparrow flew down from the tree and circled toward a lotus sitting at the left of her lower back.

John couldn't get his tongue to work. She wasn't as skinny as he thought, but slim with a body of strong muscles.

"That's all of them," she said and lowered her shirt. "I think it would be pretty ill advised for a spy to get so much ink. It'd be easily recognizable, don't you think, Dr. Watson?"

Sergeant Donovan snickered from the doorway and distracted John enough that he had the grace to close his mouth.

Clearing his throat, John followed Sherlock from the room to where Lestrade led them to the woman's belongings, all still in bags and tagged accordingly.

"She's laughing at you," Sherlock said to John. A smirk of amusement tilted up the corners of his mouth.

"Donovan?" John asked.

"No."

Glancing over his shoulder, John looked back into the parlor where their client set her bare feet upon the coffee table and leaned back in her chair. Unrefined.

Looking over the items and the photographs of the writing on her arms Sherlock pointed to the woman in the parlor and said, "You!" and she jumped to her feet. She wasn't alarmed, but she crossed the house to him and stood as if awaiting an order.

"Can you read this?" Sherlock asked and thrust one of the photographs at her.

"Easy," John softly told his friend in response to his rough demeanor.

"She couldn't read it when we took the pictures," Lestrade mentioned.

Taking the photo in her hands, the brunette woman frowned. "Twelve different languages at least… Did I write this? It's amazing…" She glanced to Lestrade and said, "I guess I'm clever after all."

"Did you tell her she wasn't clever?" John teased the detective.

"Right arm is a line from Homer's Odyssey. Left is the Illiad," she muttered, pouring over the photos. "But what the hell was I trying to say?"

"You still look like a spy," Sergeant Donovan said.

"Hell," the woman replied, "if I wrote this on myself in twelve different languages that I can now currently read, I'm starting to believe that I'm a spy as well." She then turned to Sherlock and held out the pictures. "And if that's the case. Who do I work for, why haven't they come to get me, and why is Mycroft Holmes so keen to keep me safe and happy?"

Glancing to John, Sherlock said, "She asks the right questions."

"Do you want her to be your new blogger?" John blurted.

"Detective, could you tell me if I've incited a lover's quarrel…?" the woman whispered.

"We're not!" John decried.

"Easy, friend," she said and held up her hands as if to steady him from a distance. "I obviously hit a nerve there. It was entirely unintended. If you'd like, I'll go sit in my parlor and Mr. Holmes can yell again if he needs me."

She didn't wait for a response but seemed to carelessly return to the parlor.

"Why didn't you ask Mycroft those questions when you were brought here?" Detective Lestrade asked from across the room.

"Because I've never met nor spoken to Mycroft Holmes, only listened to you lot's fanciful tales and assumed he was the one that locked me in this ivory tower with my own personal guard!" By the end of her words she sounded bitter and angry.

Sherlock watched her from across the room, watched her decompress within herself and settle once more.

"Besides," she said, her words calmer, "if you happen to remember last night, Detective, you and Fancy-Pants Donovan over there were the ones who brought me here on his orders." She spun about and walked away, muttering, "Sometimes I wonder who the one is that has amnesia!"

"Spirited, that one," Lestrade sighed.

"She didn't remember how to read the writing on her arms earlier?" John asked.

"Not a word," the detective replied. "Now she knows writing in twelve languages…"

Watching Sherlock go through the woman's belongings in an unusually quiet manner, John finally asked, "What is it? What's wrong?"

Lestrade then asked, "What are we supposed to call her if she doesn't know her name?"

"Go talk to her," Sherlock told John and his friend looked to him bewildered.

"Why…?" John asked.

"Because the two of you have more in common than either of you realize, now go."

At Sherlock's request, John left to see to the woman in the parlor. The moment he entered, she apologized. "I don't know why I got so angry," she admitted.

"I'm getting the idea that perhaps Sherlock knows," he replied and took a seat near her.

"Is it true, that he can read people like an open book?" she asked as she put her hands behind her head.

"Yes."

"Then why hasn't he said anything?"

"He doesn't like being wrong," John suggested.

After a moment of consideration, she replied, "Fair enough." Then she sat forward and rose to her feet. "Do you often feel restless, Dr. Watson?"

"Not often," he replied and couldn't keep the curiosity from his voice. "And you can call me John, if you'd like."

The trill of his phone caught him off guard and he reached into his pocket. Awaiting him was another message from Mycroft Holmes. It read: _Anything yet?_

"Woman!" Sherlock called.

"Call me anything but that!" she hollered back as she crossed the house to him once again.

John had barely turned to see her stride up to Sherlock when Lestrade drew his gun at her. She reacted without a moment of hesitation, striking his hand and relieving him of his weapon before she pointed it back at him.

"Jesus…" Lestrade breathed, his own gun aimed at his face.

Her finger was on the trigger, and just as suddenly, she lowered it and offered him his weapon. As he took it from her hand, she said, "Don't do that… ever."

Lestrade's unit rushed forward with their guns drawn and he waved them off.

"Do not test me, Mr. Holmes," the woman said, ignoring the officers' threatening gesture. "Just because the power might be off doesn't mean you should stick a fork in the socket for what ifs and maybes." Her words were rough again, angry.

Sherlock stepped in close to her, staring down at her from few inches away and she looked back at him with defiance. There was a personality emerging in the mystery woman, emotions that belonged to someone substantial enough to pique the consulting detective's interest. It only appeared to rise with stress or anger.

"Please tell me this was all worth something," Lestrade replied as he holstered his pistol.

"More than you know, Detective," Sherlock replied.

"You understand completely that I could have blown your head off your shoulders with your own gun, don't you Detective?" she questioned Lestrade, never once removing her gaze from Sherlock's face.

"It was a worthy experiment," Sherlock said.

"Then tell me," she said, "What did you learn from your little test?"

"You're a soldier," Sherlock replied. "You have been for quite some time. Part of an elite task force of one kind or another, possibly a branch of military that may be hidden from the public eye. Mycroft would only be so careful with something well above his paygrade."

"You've referred to me as _something_," she replied with an unhappy tone.

Sherlock continued. "You have a more pronounced callous in your gun-hand than John does, and your hands are much rougher. The Tree of Life on your side conceals three bullet wounds and a burn-scar. You are active-duty, there is no doubt."

"The writing," she said.

"Homer's Odyssey," he returned, "_So, the gods don't hand out all their gifts at once, not build and brains and flowing speech to all. One man may fail to impress us with his looks but a god can crown his words with beauty, charm, and men look on with delight when he speaks out. Never faltering, filled with winning self-control, he shines forth at assembly grounds and people gaze at him like a god when he walks through the streets. Another man may look like a deathless one on high but there's not a bit of grace to crown his words. Just like you, my fine, handsome friend_."

He began walking, circling her. "This is your target, a person, a man who is _just like you_. One of your own? And then the Illiad: _Rage - Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles, murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, great fighter's souls, but made their bodies carrion feasts for the dogs and birds and the will of Zeus was moving towards its end_." He shook his head. "You were betrayed, and your perceived last words were to warn your comrades of this betrayer, Achilles, who sold you out."

"It's all very clever, Mr. Holmes," she said with a hint of amusement, "but where is your proof? Where is the proof that I am this betrayed super-soldier? Realistically, to me, I look like a linguist with a hard-on for epic poems."

Lestrade snickered.

John sighed, "We'll only know if we get Mycroft to talk."

Mycroft was the last person any of them really wanted to see, but it was necessary.


End file.
